


The Cold

by miasmatrix



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sherlock Whump, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 22:51:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miasmatrix/pseuds/miasmatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock hunts a serial killer in Scotland, while John stays at home. Turns out he really is lost without his blogger. When Sherlock doesn't text, John does get a bit nervous.</p><p>Just a bit of fluff, is all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cold

So cold. Sherlock should have taken the time to close the door, but at that moment, he simply couldn't be bothered. Too busy staying alive, staying on his feet, too busy dragging himself through the door, too busy collapsing on the floor. Speaking of the floor: The roughly-hewn boards, spaced widely enough for him to see the ground, were forming a rather intimate bond with his right cheek, and he wished he had thought to move his scarf underneath his face while he still could. A pillow. That would have been nice. But then, he didn't really think he would stay here long. Surely - wait. Who, in fact, knew he was here? John's scepticism as much as his own inquisitiveness had driven him out of London and into this all-forsaken place, and Sherlock was rather sure John wouldn't be able to deduce where he had driven the Landrover he had rented in Glasgow. Now that he thought of it, he wasn't all too sure he himself would be able to deduce this just from a rental slip and a train ticket. But this case had been too interesting to pass up on, and John's snark had just increased his resolve. A serial killer, here, of all places. That had been too weird to ignore. And then, there had been the boredom. It did seem boredom had severely affected his judgement once again.  
A single snow flake drifted in, bolder than the rest, and settled lightly on the floorboards in front of his eyes. It sat there for a while until it dissolved and formed a tiny puddle of water. Snow. Fascinating. That was January in the Highlands for you.

No text. Not since Sherlock got off the train in Glasgow six hours ago. On the telly, the evening news were on, but John found he couldn't concentrate, so he muted the TV. His last text "Meeting them now, awaiting your apology - SH" had come six hours ago. Nothing since then. This must mean Sherlock was too busy working the case. Caught up in the hunt, something like that. John reached for the cup of tea on the coffee table. Cold. Of course. He reached for the phone again. No text. Damn that stupid, stubborn git.

John took his time tidying up. The sheer number of forgotten tea cups and dishes he found in his bedroom astonished even him. He took them down to the kitchen, washed cups and pots and dishes and cleared away cooking utensils he had no recollection using, until the kitchen cabinets seemed stuffed to bursting with clean crockery. Then, he opened the fridge, dropped what appeared to be Indian takeaway into the trash. Next came something that might have been lettuce once, but might just as well be one of Sherlock's experiments. Hard to tell at this state of decomposition. Anyway. In the bin it went, just as the blueish bacon he found and a bit of fluffy cheese. Several magazines and newspapers, old as the trees, came next, and underneath he found what resembled a piece of Mrs. Hudson's wonderful blueberry tarte, a week past its shelf life. John stuffed it all into a blue trash bag and took it down to the rubbish bin, cursing under his breath.  
On his way back up, he stopped on the landing and listened. It was so quiet. Much too quiet, in fact. It was never quiet in their apartment, even when Sherlock had one of his silent spells. Even when he wouldn't speak or wouldn't play the violin, it wasn't this quiet. His silence would radiate off him in waves, emanating meaning (come to think of it, mostly contempt, mixed with a certain angry world-weariness only Sherlock could pull off) and permeating John's thoughts. If anything, he was even louder when he kept his mouth shut. Now, though - nothing.  
John shook his head and closed his eyes. The bloody idiot, making him miss him. Why couldn't John just enjoy a few days without his, let's be honest about this for once, totally obnoxious flatmate? He sighed and stepped into the empty apartment, determined to at least render the apartment shipshape. He took a tray and opened the door to Sherlock's bedroom. Here, his absence was overwhelming. The scarf, the cloak, the duffel bag gone, everything very neat and tidy. Disappointingly so - there was absolutely no reason for John to intrude here, no forgotten cups, nothing. John sagged down onto the neatly made bed. Something inside him condensed into a small, painful ball of worry, and he couldn't for the life of him imagine what that was.

 

A soft touch on his face brought Sherlock back. It turned out to be surprisingly difficult to open his eyes, but he needed to see what had touched him. If the man had come back, the one who had lured him here, what if he hadn't been able to shake him... What if there had been footprints. In the snow. No, impossible. It had started snowing after he had come here, his tracks would be covered with snow by now. If he had left any, but he had taken care not to step on brittle lichen or the frozen moss, and stone didn't hold footprints well. Oh, there's the blood, but that should be frozen now and snowed over. Well, yes, there would be a lot of blood, after all, he had been shot, hadn't he. Had he? It seemed unlikely now. He was cold, but not in as much pain as he thought one would be after being shot. He did a quick inventory of himself and realized his arm was pressed to his abdomen directly underneath the ribcage, and his shirt felt sticky and wet. Oh. That would be it, then. Shot indeed.  
Again, a light touch on his face. Several touches, in fact. This time, he managed to open his eyes. At first, he couldn't make sense of the white fluffy substance in front of him, but then he deduced that this was, no doubt about it, snow. Snow drifted in in droves now and settled on his face, and it didn't seem to melt easily now. What did that tell him about his situation? He was losing blood, he didn't feel as cold as he should, and he couldn't bring himself to move. He was entering hypothermia, maybe even volume shock. Good conclusion. What would John have to say about this? Don't fall asleep, stay alert. Stay awake. Wait for help. Good, reliable John. A breeze drifted in and brought more snow, and it took Sherlock's consciousness with him.

 

John jerked awake and cursed softly when he realized he had fallen asleep in front of the telly again. There was a crap late night show on, and because the sound was still off, the antagonists' gesticulating seemed almost funny. His hand fished for the phone. Still no text. Laboriously, he got up and worked out the crick in his neck. His feet carried him to the window where rain fell thick and patiently, illuminated by pale street lights. John's focus shifted and he studied the reflection in the window. The man opposite him looked defiant, arms crossed, but his knitted brow and the look on his face spoke a different language. John cringed. Damn. Very well. Just this once. And not for Sherlock, but for himself. Just so he knew. "Found your killer? -JW" So. There. Send. Bath. Bed.  
John took his time getting ready for bed. It was almost midnight when he finally went upstairs, turned his bed down and sat on the edge of the bed, checking his phone just once more before turning off the light. No - bloody - text. A drawn out sigh was the only sign of frustration John allowed. He closed his eyes, the indignity quite familiar by now. Ah, but this was Sherlock. John tried to pretend it was moral superiority that made him type "Please accept my sincerest apology -JW", gritting his teeth, hoping Sherlock would choke on the sarcasm he had no doubt wouldn't travel on the text at all. Well, one could always hope. Send. Lights out. Suddenly weary beyond words, John still found it amazingly difficult to sleep while waiting for the chime that announced a text. 

He must have fallen asleep anyway, because when the chime finally came, it caught him dead to the world. One eye cracked open, he debated whether he should even look, but with every moment of deliberation, sleep fell further and further away. With a mumbled curse, he glanced at the clock (half past one) and at the phone. The text wasn't what he expected: "Found SerialScot, wheres SH? -GL" Lestrade. Suddenly, John was wide awake. He punched Lestrade's number, and the DI answered after a few rings: "Hey, John! Come over, beer's on us!" Lestrade clearly was in a fantastic mood after catching his killer. "Where's Sherlock, is he moping?" Laughter in the background, John heard glass clink, and music. A bar. John's stomach felt like it'd turn any moment. "Listen, Greg. He's not here. He went to Scotland. Isn't he with you then?"  
Lestrade, suddenly serious: "John, no, he's not. He should be, he's why the locals called us in after all. But you know him. Where did he go, has he told you?"  
"I don't know. We had a disagreement, and he just went." John gathered yesterday's shirt and sweater and started to pull on his trousers one-handedly. "He said he'd rent a Landrover." Keys, wallet and jacket next. "Your guy. Does he talk?"  
Lestrade covered the phone with his hand and shouted orders, the merrymaking obviously over. "I'll see to that. But I doubt it. Donovan is calling the airbase, we might need a helicopter. So you are still in London then?"  
"I'll take the next train up. Plane. Or rent a car. Whatever. I'll text you when I'm there."  
"Stay where you are, John. We'll send someone to pick you up."  
John caught movement down on the street. The rain still fell thick and heavily, and a big black limousine pulled up in front of 221B. "No need", John said, "Seems like my cab has arrived."

Even with the fast helicopter Mycroft had arranged for, the trip to Scotland took hours. A lot of time to think. The countryside beneath him was dark, dotted in places with illuminated towns and villages, but those grew sparser by the minute. The din of the engine, the lights, the crew's clipped communication, his headset, all of this took him back to a different life, back to similar flights across a desert, transports, to the smell of blood and worse and his hands doing what they could. All of a sudden, he felt very vulnerable without a tactical vest and helmet. He slipped into a familiar professional trance, concentrating only on the matters at hand, and the part of him that screamed and begged for Sherlock's life found itself buried very deeply.  
Dawn caught them over the area where Sherlock's Landrover had been found. The morning light bathed the landscape in an eerily beautiful rosy glow. No sign of Sherlock. John knew Lestrade was still working on his suspect, and a helicopter with an infrared camera searched the area in a wide grid pattern. But he also knew that a lot of time had passed, enough time for a body to cool to ambient temperature. And it had snowed. They might not find him alive. They might not find his body until spring. John knew all that, but the small, buried part that begged for Sherlock's life didn't believe in it. His hands held on to the phone as if he could force a text from it, and he nearly dropped it when it chimed. A text. "Hut". Nothing else. Hut.  
"A HUT!! HE'S IN A HUT!!", John yells into the headset, "LOOK FOR A HUT!!" From now on, everything happens very quickly.

 

John jumps out of the landing helicopter, rolls, curses as he loses his footing on the wet snow, scrambles across the treacherous surface towards the hut. He's so certain. This must be it. It's perfect. Not on any map. A gray little hut crouching down between gray boulders, and if not for the gaping door, all but invisible from downhill. Sherlock wouldn't choose anything less than the perfect hiding spot on his run from a killer who had impersonated a serial killer just to get to Sherlock... God, please, don't let him be dead. John comes to a stop next to the unmoving bundle that must be his friend. He's covered in snow, his right arm outstretched, the phone still in his hand. The eyes are open and very grey and they do not move when John brushes the snow off his friend's cold, cold face. They do not move. He drops to his knees next to Sherlock, his hand finds the jugular, searching for a pulse. There it is, slow, but steady, but there's no reaction, no movement, nothing. There is a lot of blood, and Sherlock is very, very cold. "IN HERE!!!" John yells, and he brushes more snow off his friend, wipes it off his cheek, his hair, checks his airways. Sherlock squints his eyes, very slowly, and John has to move very close to hear what his friend has to say: "I was right."  
The part of John that screams and begs for his friend's life turns white hot in John's heart. He slips his arms underneath Sherlock and draws him up into his arms, cradling his head to his chest as if he could warm him, keep him, anchor him to life. Burying his head in Sherlock's frost-covered hair, he whispers Sherlock's name, over and over.

He's not much help. The helicopter crew readies Sherlock, who has passed out again, for transport. He saves Sherlock's discarded scarf from oblivion in a Scottish hut. He has no choice, he has to be close and keep an eye on him, so they make him hold the IV bag like a proper worried relative, and he stays glued next to the stretcher and crams himself into the helicopter next to him, ignoring the crew's pleas to strap in. Sherlock's temperature is worryingly low. But John knows that the cold might actually save him, slow his metabolism and protect him from the most severe effects of blood loss and organ damage. But he's so cold. John knows this war isn't won yet, and it breaks his heart. 

 

Sherlock's consciousness bobs over boulders, stops and starts and finds the world too loud, too cold and far too painful. He remembers an important message to someone important, but his thoughts slide off this particular topic, and when he wakes up, the phone useless in his cold hand, he cannot recall if he sent it or not, or to whom. He recalls someone important, John? Yes, must have been John, very close and very loud, but warm. Warm and unshaven, and why was he yelling? He wants to tell John that he was right, John would have found him, and that there hadn't been a serial killer, just a killer. But John doesn't listen, he just comes even closer and - cries? Why would John cry? Sherlock finds this curious, but he drops the thought and his consciousness with it.

 

"You were right about the hypothermia, Dr. Watson. The gunshot wound would have been fatal if..." A woman's voice.  
"He's awake."  
"Oh. Yes. You're right."  
A pause even Sherlock, half-awake, cannot help but find awkward. Then the woman's voice again, soft and with far more feeling than is called for: "I'll leave you two alone, then."  
Sherlock squints to find John by his side, head turned as he watches the woman retreat. His exasperation is painfully obvious. But his face lights up when he turns towards Sherlock and sees him awake and lucid.  
"Hey."  
"Sounds nice."  
"What?"  
"The doctor."  
John shrugs. "Oh. Her. Yeah. I guess." He grins sheepishly before he continues. "Thinks we're married, though. Mycroft's sense of humour I guess."  
Sherlock tries hmpfing, but it hurts. "Dating pool's been severely reduced then. Again. And Mycroft has no sense of humour."  
"True." John's face sags a bit as he recalls the day Sherlock was admitted. "They wouldn't let me see you without that little lie."  
"Oh." And then, changing direction: "What's the status, then?"  
"You mean, your body? OK. Well. You've been shot, obviously, and you had to have surgery. No major organ damage, but you lost a lot of blood. Oh, and your spleen. Sorry."  
"Don't need a spleen anyway. What else?"  
"Hypothermia and frostbite. Nothing permanent, but you'll - hey! What do you think you're doing!"  
Sherlock throws back the covers, swings his legs off the bed and stands next to it on wobbly legs before John can even react. "There's a killer on the loose," he informs John, "and if you think for one moment that I'll lie here and -" This is as far as he makes it before collapsing into a boneless heap next to the bed. John grunts, annoyed, as he picks him up and shoves him on the bed. Sherlock comes to again while John arranges his long legs carefully and checks the surtures for damage. It's not hard to deduce that John is furious, even though his hands are gentle enough. Sherlock watches for a while how John's hands perform a complicated dance around angrily beeping machines and his body, reattaching lines and probes.  
"You cried", Sherlock states. John stops what he's doing and glowers, but says nothing. "Why?", demands Sherlock. John's hands pull the hospital gown back in place and tuck the blanket around Sherlock's legs, everything practiced, efficiently, face blank now.  
"I knew you'd find me."  
Heavily, John sits down on the bed next to Sherlock's hip, and Sherlock can't help but wonder how tired his friend looks, how on edge. When John speaks, his voice is gravelly and rough. "You are a piece of work, Sherlock. You go off on a jaunt with a murderer, get yourself as good as killed, and wonder why anyone would shed a tear. You are the most selfish bastard I've ever shared a flat with."  
"Shared a flat with many bastards then, have you."  
John looks like he cannot decide whether to punch his friend or hang his head and cry. In the end, he does hang his head and covers his face with his hands, his shoulders jerk, the bed shakes, but curiously, the noise coming off John sounds more like a laugh. Sherlock didn't expect that at all, and now John is laughing for real, half desperate, half genuine. When he finally looks at Sherlock again, the mirth is obvious, and so is his exhaustion. "Lestrade found our killer, he's in custody and has admitted to shooting you and killing that youth to get you to follow him. Nothing for you to do anymore but lie down and get well. Did you get that?"  
Sherlock nods, intimidated, convinced his friend just snapped.  
"Good. Now move over."  
"Excuse me?"  
"I haven't slept in three days, Sherlock. And you just proved to me that I have to keep an eye on you. We're married, so don't fuss. Mycroft says so. Move over."  
Sherlock moves until there's enough space for John, who just shucks off his shoes and flops down beside him. He's warm and smells of John and a slightly damp woollen jumper, which Sherlock finds oddly soothing. John drapes one arm across him and announces: "You will not get away. Don't even try. Please." And with that, he falls asleep.  
Sherlock lies there for a while and listens to his friend's breathing, feels the little twitches as John's body relaxes. He decides John has indeed finally snapped, and files this away for later analysis. For now, though, there's really nothing else to do, is there. Something in him that was wound up like a spring lets go, and he eases into the warmth and the wool and John's four-day-stubble against his shoulder. His last thought is that there truly isn't any reason to get away now, and sleep comes easily.


End file.
